


Weapons, and the Knowledge to Use Them

by Zelan



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, it has a happy ending don't worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 07:34:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18069236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zelan/pseuds/Zelan
Summary: After having trouble adjusting to life at Camp Half-Blood, Riley finds comfort from an unexpected source.





	Weapons, and the Knowledge to Use Them

**Author's Note:**

> Mr. D cares a lot about the campers even if he would rather stay sober for eternity than admit it and I will absolutely fight you on this.
> 
> Riley can be interpreted as any gender.

“Anyone out of bed past curfew will be eaten by the cleaning harpies.”

It would be the easiest way to do the deed, I figured, since the harpies wouldn’t exactly have any qualms about my death. Plus, they wouldn’t leave my body behind, so there would be nothing left for anybody to deal with. It wouldn’t be a bother to anyone.

And yet, I’d been wandering around camp in the dark for at least twenty minutes without seeing head, tail, or feather of them. 

I’d bet this was their night off. Just my luck.

I eyed the woods, considering taking a stroll through there - there would be no shortage of monsters willing to pick me off, that was for sure. But I couldn’t be certain they wouldn’t leave behind my mangled remains, to be discovered the next game of Capture the Flag. That had the potential to get ugly.

“You’re out late, Rory Penderson.”

I stiffen, knowing immediately who’s found me. “That’s not my name,” I grumble, clenching my fists as I turn around to face the camp director.

“Whatever,” says Mr. D, clad in a truly eye-searing neon orange Hawaiian shirt. I can’t tell if it’s his godly aura, or if the shirt is just so bright that it functions as a light source, but the darkness seems to recede as he steps closer to me.

“What do you want?” I mutter.

He raises his can of Diet Coke in something like a halfhearted toast. “A bottle of Merlot and for you campers to stop doing anything that requires my attention. What do you want?”

The question catches me off guard - not that it looks like he cares about the answer. “I heard the cleaning harpies eat anyone out past curfew.” I slump to the ground, suddenly too tired to bother with holding myself up.

Mr. D peers at me with his bloodshot eyes. To my surprise, he plops down cross-legged next to me, looking between me and the woods, where he’d caught me staring.

I risk a sideways glance at him. His expression remains unreadable, but there’s a shift, somehow, in the atmosphere, and I can tell he’s figured me out.

“If you wanted to get to the Underworld that badly,” he comments mildly, “there are much more certain ways to do it than by cleaning harpy. Walking into the Ares cabin, for example.”

I don’t meet his eyes.

“I don’t think you want to be there, yet,” Mr. D continues. Not judgemental. Just stating the facts. “What makes you think you do?”

His tone is no different now than it has been since I met him a few days ago - bored, apathetic, like a tired retail worker who’s been doing the same job for 20 years. He takes another sip of Diet Coke, as if he couldn’t care less.

And yet he’s sitting here with me, asking the question.

“My life sucks,” I say simply, pulling absentmindedly at the blades of grass around me. “I don’t see any reason why it should get better just because I’m here. It’s not like my godly heritage was ever any help to me before.”

Mr. D nods. “An understandable sentiment. Being here certainly hasn’t made my life any better than it was previously. But consider: I am immortal. You are not.”

“What’s your point?”

“Before I lived here, I lived on Mount Olympus, where my every need, want, and whim was catered to. You lived in a series of foster homes with foster parents who were even less cut out to raise children than Apollo is.”

I frown. “How did you know I lived in foster homes?”

“The satyrs report on every demigod they’re sent to collect.”

“You actually listened to the report?”

“Of course not.”

“But you just -”

“The point is, Rusty, you were in an abominable situation, and, much like me, you didn’t even have any alcohol to improve it with,” Mr. D cuts me off. “And being here and finding your godly parent won’t erase that. It can’t. But you don’t have to go back there, either. And Camp Half-Blood, despite all of its faults, does provide the next best thing to alcohol when it comes to vastly improving a bad situation.”

“And what’s that?” I ask, curious despite myself.

“Weapons. And the knowledge to use them.”

A reluctant smile twists my features. He’s right, I realize. I wouldn’t be able to forget the things that had happened to me overnight. But they were over now. Camp Half-Blood might not be the best place in the world, but it was a new beginning, at least.

I wasn’t really in any hurry to see the Underworld yet.

Mr. D stands up. “Now, if we’re quite done here, it’s time you went to bed, Riley Patterson, before I’m forced to punish you for being out past curfew.”

It takes me a moment to realize why my own name sounded so foreign - I wasn’t expecting to hear him say it. He starts to walk away as I scramble to stand.

“You do care about us,” I say softly. “You know my name. And what happened to me. And what I was trying to do tonight.”

He stops short. When he turns back to me, his expression is more genuine than I’ve ever seen it. He nods once, just barely, then turns back around.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ronnie Petersen. Good night. Don’t be late for breakfast or you won’t get any.”

I track him by his bright orange shirt as he makes his way back to the Big House. It strikes me that it must be hard for him to care, when so many demigods die young. And besides, as the camp director and a literal god, he has a reputation to uphold as an aloof, unapproachable figure.

I won’t give him away to the other campers. But it’s nice, knowing that someone cares what happens to me.

I sleep better that night than I ever have.


End file.
